The Aftermath
by Wolness
Summary: After a hard won victory what happened to the heroes?
1. The Hermit

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters mentioned here or in any subsequent chapters. JK Rowling does. But I can't help if she created some wonderful characters…_

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**The Hermit**

Sometimes the pain was overwhelming and he could no longer concentrate on even the most mundane things.

Sometimes the voices were so loud he could almost believe they were real.

Sometimes he was too afraid to sleep – afraid of the horrors he would find lurking in his dreams.

Sometimes, when he did sleep, he would wake to find himself on the balcony, staring down at the street below.

Sometimes he was strong, and he would get himself a large measure of firewhiskey to calm his nerves.

Sometimes he would drink all the firewhiskey and collapse into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Sometimes he didn't drink, but would huddle on the balcony shivering, tears rolling down his cheeks – tormented by memories.

Sometimes the sun was shining, but he could no longer feel its gentle warmth on his face.

Sometimes he could no longer see the colours around him and everything appeared faded like an old photograph.

Sometimes he could no longer stand his own apathy and he would leave his apartment for Knockturn Alley.

Sometimes the girls he found there could lift his spirits, help him to forget, and he would be happy for a while.

But not really happy, and that was only sometimes.

Sometimes he wished he hadn't distanced himself from the world and wished he still had his old courage.

Often he would wonder where his so-called bravery had gone- the bravado that had saved the world.

Often he would sit in the dark silence, brooding, without even a pet for company. His owl had died a few months ago, from neglect he thought.

Sometimes he would sit on his balcony, shrouded by his cloak, just watching people go by.

Sometimes he would feel his brow gently, to find it smooth. His most distinguishing feature had waned after his victory.

Sometimes he missed it, despite all the long hours of pain and strife it had caused him.

Sometimes he would wonder why nobody knew he was living there. Not even the girls he visited knew who he was.

Sometimes he was puzzled by the lack of interest in his withdrawal from public life.

Sometimes he would wonder where his old comrades and classmates were and what they were doing.

Often he would wonder where she was and why he never saw her pass along his street.

Now he smiled wryly in the darkness and whispered hoarsely, "The prophecy was wrong."

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_Please review, It's the first piece of it's kind that I've written...I'm very curious to hear what anyone who read it thinks._

_Cheers, Wol_


	2. The Giver

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters mentioned here or in any subsequent chapters. JK Rowling does. But I can't help if she created some wonderful characters…_

**Solitude**

No matter how busy she was, she knew something was missing, but she could never place it.

It was like an itch one cannot scratch, irritating, but somehow comforting.

To fill the strange emptiness she was always busy, always pushing herself beyond all reason, always finding some less fortunate souls to help, until she was utterly spent. Then she would collapse into a soothing world of white, breathing, completely conscious but unable to respond. The medics always seemed worried for her, but she brushed their concerns away, dismissing any suggestions of treatment.

Where was he? Why had he gone? These questions always drove her to work harder, always forced her to exhaustion in the need to forget, always reverberated around her comatose days, making it all pointless.

She was once a home-bird, but she now travelled estensively, her previous powers forgotten, immersing herself in different cultures, moving further and further from her old life each day. People who met her knew that she had faced hard times and survived, knew there was more to her than met the eye, but few ever pressed her. Those that did urged her to tell never found out, and she was always gone the next morning.

Her rich red hair had grown long and ragged, and had lost its sheen. She hardly noticed and didn't care, just tied it back in one long braid that swung from side to side as she worked. Her clothes were shabby and few, they were plain but serviceable. She had no need for luxuries anymore, not when there were so many people in the world who needed help.

She never saw her family anymore, she always said she was too busy and neither of her parents ever pursued her excuses. Since the death, seeing them was hard – none of her family understood the effect the war had left on her, the effect it had left on her life.

Where was he? Why had he left her? Subconsciously, she always kept an eye out for him, but he never seemed to be around. She had long since given up on reading the papers. _They_ barely seemed to notice he was missing. _They_ had never pursued his withdrawal from the public eye. Even that nosey bitch who seemed to attract gossip never wrote of him.

Is this how a hero dies? By the wayside, alone and unloved?

Is this how the World's saviour ends his days? Ignored and forgotten by those who previously hounded and tormented him?

Somedays she missed him so much she could barely stand it. Those were the days when she gathered her young daughter into her arms and just sat and cried. Those were the days she found hardest and wondered what she was doing, where she was going. Soon her daughter would wonder why she didn't have the same hair as her mother. Every day that passed only made the questions pound more urgently than before: why had it ended this way? Why had the World forgotten him?

Why had he forgotten _her_?


End file.
